Arcadia

by Iain Pears

  ‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Jenkins?’ She experienced a slight apprehension looking around at the squalor, even though she was rarely afraid of anything. She didn’t know whether she should really be there, for one thing.

  ‘Jenkins?’ she called again, then, more sure the place was empty, more loudly. ‘Jenkins, you lump.’

  Maybe the deaf brute was hiding under something? Still calling out, she began peering in the cupboards and under the table. Nothing. Then she saw a rusty iron arch, the sort of thing people grow roses around, stacked in the middle of a pile of gardening equipment. She’d seen one at a country house her class had visited on a school trip the previous summer. It was odd, though, covered in cans and bits of paper and tin foil, with a thick curtain draped over it, as heavy and dark as the blackout material that was still tucked away in many houses. Rosie doubted it would be much use against atom bombs, but people kept it just in case.

  She walked to the curtain, which smelled mildewed, and pulled it open to make sure Jenkins wasn’t skulking behind it. She let out a cry of alarm, her hands reflexively going up to her face to cover her eyes, turning away from the dazzling light that flooded into the dingy little room.

  Gradually, she opened her fingers so she could peer through them, letting her eyes accustom themselves to the sudden brightness. It was unbelievable. The pergola – in a drab, grim house, in a drab, grim street on a drab, grim day – gave a view not of the damp stained wall beyond, but of open countryside bathed in brilliant light. Before her eyes were rolling hills, parched by the sun. She had seen such landscapes before, in the books she borrowed from the library. Mediterranean, or so it seemed to her. Dark trees which she thought might be olives, hills covered in scrub. In the distance a wide river of an extraordinary blue, reflecting the sun in a way which was almost hypnotic.

  It was not a photograph – surely no photograph could be that good – because she could see movement. The sun on the water. Birds in the sky. And in the fields there were people. She stood open-mouthed. The sight was delicious, irresistible.

  She stepped closer and touched the ironwork; it was cold.

  She never thought of turning away; all she wanted to do was get closer. A strange shivering, tingling feeling passed through her body as she moved through the frame, almost as though someone was tickling her inside.

  When she was completely through, she was hit by the warm air, shocking in contrast to the chilly dampness of the cellar.

  It was beautiful; she wanted to tear off her coat – the ugly red one she had been given for her birthday – and feel the warmth on her skin. She wanted to run down to the river and bathe her face in it. She knew the feeling would be wonderful.

  She stopped, feeling nervous for the first time. She seemed to be at the entrance of a small cave or something; the walls were covered in brush and thin straggly trees that somehow managed to grow in the crevices. Suddenly she realised there was someone there.

  It was a boy, younger than she was by the look of him, dressed in a rough tunic, with bare brown legs. He had fair, tousled hair and a pleasant, open expression. Or might do, if he didn’t look so terrified. She looked around to see what was causing him such fright, and then realised that it must be her.

  She couldn’t speak; she did not know what to say. She hoped he wasn’t going to attack her, or throw rocks, or something.

  He took a few steps, hesitated, then stopped. He bowed to her. Cautiously, she nodded back, to show she was friendly.

  He spoke, but she couldn’t understand him. The warmth of the summer day was all around them, birds singing quite normally in the background, the dense heat pressing down on them. Neither noticed.

  ‘How may I serve you?’ said the boy slowly, this time in a heavily accented but just understandable English.

  Rosie smiled in relief, but was so surprised that she took a step back, and tripped on a stone. She had to keep her balance by taking another step, and that took her through the light. Instantly, she was in the smelly cold cellar once more; the heat, the sound were all gone, although she could still see the boy looking frightened and confused. He had gone down on his knees now, and was touching his forehead to the ground.

  The spell was broken; the wonder had gone, and all Rosie wanted to do was escape. She pulled the curtain back into its place, rushed up the stairs and into the grey of an English morning. Jenkins would just have to go without food today, that was all there was to it.

  3

  As far as Jack More was concerned, the outside world, unhealthy and artificial though it might be, was a tantalising idea of freedom. So he often came to the large display screen that decorated the space leading to the conference rooms, just to stare and remember. It wasn’t real; there were no windows anywhere in the complex, but it was better than nothing. At the moment, it was an imaginary but fairly realistic view of cows and hills and grass. Only the hills might still actually exist, but he liked looking at it nonetheless. In a moment it would change to empty snow-topped mountains, also imaginary as no snow had fallen anywhere in the world for at least a decade. He didn’t know why it was there. Few except him had any interest in the outside world; everything of importance lay inside the huge, sealed building they lived and worked in. It was dangerous and frightening outside.

  He turned as he heard voices. A little group was walking along the corridor that led to the research area, talking quietly. He scowled in annoyance. He wasn’t meant to be in this part of the facility; he was meant to stay in the administrative block, and certainly he was not meant to hear anything that others might say.

  Then there was an explosion of wrath from around the corner. Jack stopped in his tracks and positioned himself to observe without attracting attention. The group of scientists formed a sort of defensive gaggle, huddling together to meet the approaching threat.

  The source of the noise was a mathematician by the name of Angela Meerson. She strode into sight, the look of thunder on her face contrasting strongly with the flat, compliant appearance of the others. Everything else was different as well; she was taller, dressed in vivid purple, while they wore the almost uniform grey-brown look of their type. Her hair was long, and untidy, as though she had just got out of bed. Their gestures were measured and controlled, hers free-flowing and as ill-disciplined as her hair, which had been valiantly organised into a complicated bun at some stage and then allowed to grow wild.

  The researchers collectively decided to pretend she wasn’t there. This was a mistake on their part. She did not take kindly to it.

  ‘Where is he?’ she bellowed at the top of her voice. Some looked shocked at her lack of respect, control and decorum. Others were merely frightened. They weren’t used to such behaviour, although some had worked with her in the past and had witnessed her explosions before. They generally meant that she was working hard.

  ‘Well? Can’t you talk? Where is the devious little weasel?’

  ‘You really should calm yourself,’ said one anxiously. ‘The protocols for registering dissatisfaction are clearly laid down. I can forward the documentation, if you like, I’m sure …’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you moron.’ She brandished a piece of paper in his face. ‘Look at this.’

  He read it with what looked like genuine surprise. ‘You are being suspended,’ he observed.

  ‘Is that a smirk on your face?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied hastily. ‘I didn’t know anything about it. Really.’

  She snorted. ‘Liar,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a hearing tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be explained.’

  ‘Ha!’ she cried out. ‘Tomorrow? Why not today? Shall I tell you? Because he’s a weasel.’

  ‘I’m sure Dr Hanslip has the best interests of everyone in mind, and it is our duty to obey his wishes. We all have complete faith in his leadership and I don’t see what you hope to achieve through such a display.’

  She gave him a look of withering disgust. ‘Do you not? Do you really not? Then w
atch me. You might learn something.’

  She hurled the crumpled piece of paper at him, making him flinch, then wheeled around and marched off down the corridor, going ‘Ha!’ twice before she disappeared.

  The group broke out into giggles of nervous relief. ‘Must be tanked up again,’ one said. ‘She needs it to get up to full power. She’ll come down again in a day or two.’

  ‘She really is quite mad, though,’ added another. ‘I don’t know how she’s lasted this long. I wouldn’t stand for it.’ Then he noticed Jack watching from the sidelines. He glared and dropped his voice.

  *

  I very much hoped my dramatic exit impressed them all; I was certainly not feeling so very confident at that moment. My relations with Hanslip had always been fragile, to say the least, but for a long time that fragility had been firmly in the domain of what you might term creative tension. He disliked me, I couldn’t stand him, but we sort of needed each other. Like an old-time musical duo: Robert Hanslip on money, Angela Meerson on intelligence. We talked, as well, and his stupidity often enough made me think and consider things anew. This time, however, it was different. He had gone too far. I had just discovered a plot to steal my work and sell it to that creature Oldmanter, perhaps the foulest, most poisonous man on the planet. That was my opinion and I admit that others thought differently. But they were idiots.

  What’s more, I had found out that he had been working on this scheme for some time, all the while lying to my face. I’d known, of course, that he was up to something, but it was only by chance that I put the pieces together, because of a surprise visit by the sort of person I would normally have ignored.

  ‘Lucien Grange, sales representative’, it said on the daily manifest. What do I care for such people? They come and go all the time, hawking their wares. Only by chance did I notice this particular one, and then only because of a leaky pipe in a corridor, which meant that I had to take a diversion through some of the lesser passageways. Only because Lucien Grange chose that precise moment to come out of the room he had been assigned to. I remembered him; I knew I did. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he was important to me, and not because of any facility he might have with toilet brushes. Eventually, in a small disused corner of my memory, I found it. Eighteen years previously, we had spent some time together at an out-of-the-way institute in the South of France, on the very fringes of the great desert that stretched from the Pyrenees right down to South Africa. I’d wanted to see more but fell ill, and spent my time in a coma instead; as soon as I began to recover they shipped me back north, and by then I was too drugged even to look out of the window of the helicopter.

  I couldn’t for the life of me remember why, but the memory made me feel uncomfortable. Not that it mattered; the important detail was the fact that I knew him, and I was not in the habit of knowing sales representatives. I wasn’t even allowed, technically, to talk to them. It destroyed the mystique of scientific aloofness so important to us in the elite. Familiarity breeds contempt; they might see through us.

  When I got to my office, I poured myself a glass of wine – medicinal purposes only, licensed and perfectly legal – then set to work. It didn’t take long to track him down. Sales representative, forsooth! In fact, he was senior vice-president of Zoffany Oldmanter’s prime research outfit, and a rapid look through his activities showed that he specialised in gobbling up lesser operations and binding them firmly into Oldmanter’s ever-increasing empire. He was a corporate hit man, in other words; a trained scientific assassin.

  Now he was here, pretending to be flogging hygienic sundries. Suddenly everything made sense. I had been on the verge of finally telling Hanslip about the little experiment that proved I was correct; I had even sent a message asking for an urgent appointment, but I realised it was too late. I now understood everything, and a powerful surge of emotions ran through me. This project was mine; he wasn’t going to rip it from my arms.

  I bottled it up for as long as I could, which was about ten minutes, then went to confront Grange in his room. The look of shock on his face when I walked through the door was very revealing.

  ‘I hope you remember me. You’re not taking my machine,’ I announced as I slammed the door shut so he couldn’t escape.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Actually quite a handsome fellow; it’s amazing what technology can accomplish. He must have been older than I was.

  ‘What this facility does is low-grade garbage, except for my work; one of Oldmanter’s acolytes wouldn’t cross the street for any of it. If you have travelled five hundred miles to a boggy island in the north-west of Scotland, then it is because of my machine. Don’t deny it. Nothing else could attract the attention of that crook.’

  ‘I will not have Mr Oldmanter referred to in that way.’

  Toady, I thought.

  ‘Nor is it appropriate for me to discuss such matters with staff.’

  Staff? Me? What was Hanslip saying about me behind my back? What role was he claiming for himself? That he had done all the work? That it was his idea? It wouldn’t have surprised me.

  I decided to pile on the pressure and burst into tears. Naturally, that sent him into a panic. I had learned over the past fifty years that uncontrolled displays of emotion were capable of inducing a sense of terror when released in a confined space. I was used to them; my work depended on their judicious deployment. Most people would run a mile to avoid even being in close vicinity and Grange was now obviously feeling disoriented.

  ‘Oh, Lucien!’ I sobbed. ‘After all these years! You do not even remember me!’ Odd; I was most certainly putting it on, but a part of me was feeling genuine distress, although I did not understand why.

  I could almost see him running through the options for how to fend me off. ‘Good God! I mean, ah …’

  I collapsed on the settee and sobbed into my sleeve, taking the occasional peek to see if this was having the desired effect. Eventually, he tentatively approached. ‘Of course I remember you,’ he said. ‘But that was a long time ago and best forgotten. Besides, I am under strict instructions. Complete the deal, then leave. There is no time for personal sentiment. Much as I would have liked …’

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘I plan to wrap up tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ I shrieked, standing up abruptly and rounding on him. ‘You are going to do a deal for my project by tomorrow? You don’t even know what you’re buying.’

  ‘Of course we do. We’ve been studying the proposals for months.’

  I must have seemed shocked, or perhaps he thought I had a slightly murderous air, and he went all official on me again. ‘This is not appropriate. You must talk to your employer; you are not authorised to talk directly to me.’

  It didn’t matter. He had told me enough already. I swept out in tearful triumph. An hour later, I got the letter of suspension. Hanslip was one step ahead of me.

  *

  It goes without saying that I never had the slightest intention of turning up to his ridiculous disciplinary committee. It was pretty obvious, after all, that it was going to be filled with his creatures. He would pronounce, anything I said would be ignored, and then I would be bundled aside to clear the way for his nasty little plot. The stuffed toys he surrounded himself with would nod and agree to anything he wanted, and I would be locked out of my own work as he handed it over to Oldmanter and his team of overpaid half-wits.

  So I had two priorities. The most important was to hang on to my property; the second was to prevent the entire universe being reshaped in the image of a bunch of thugs and reduced to ruin. I was on the verge of a major breakthrough in understanding. I wasn’t there yet, but if I was right, then a fascinating experiment could well metamorphose into the most dangerous discovery in the history of humanity. It would be better, in my opinion, to be sure before letting other people play around with it too much. Oldmanter’s lot would not be so cautious. Already I had seen alarmingly covetous looks in Hanslip’s eyes
as he contemplated the possibilities.

  I was not thinking quite as clearly as I should have been; I’d been working long and hard in the previous few days and my brain was still befuddled with the effects of the stimulants. As they cleared out of my system, though, I began to see a way through the problem. I had no confidence that I could persuade anyone to take my doubts seriously unless I could complete the work and prove my case. For that I needed more time. So I decided the best thing would be to get hold of some. In the meantime, I had to make sure no one else fiddled around with the machine in my absence.

  Going into hiding was not an option, of course. I could, perhaps, have evaded detection for a day or so, but not for much longer than that. In fact, there was only one possibility, which was to use the machine myself. I knew it worked, but it was hard to get everything ready on my own and with no one noticing.

  I managed, though; I rerouted the power supply from a few generators to ensure that all trace of my destination would be erased and the data hopelessly jumbled when I left. I had built that possibility in years ago, as I had seen enough of scientific integrity by then not to trust my colleagues further than I could throw them. If Hanslip and Oldmanter wanted to experiment, then let them. They’d have to do all the work themselves from scratch. I doubted they’d get very far.

  It took a long time to prepare, but at one in the morning I was ready to go. As I heard the hum in the final moments before the power engaged, I felt very pleased with myself. I was prepared to bet Hanslip hadn’t anticipated my move. He worked purely in the realm of calculated rationality; I did not. In a world of chemically induced sanity, a little lunacy confers immense advantages.

  Perhaps I should explain what this is about? There is a risk, I am sure, that I am giving the impression that I was petulant and egotistical, that my only concern was to bathe in the light of glory that was my due.